


Mourning Comes

by TarnishedArmour



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-19 10:51:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10638342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TarnishedArmour/pseuds/TarnishedArmour
Summary: Fred's funeral was two months ago.  Why won't the pain just go away?Originally a Fortnight Foray fic - week 1, I believe.  Beta'd by the lovely AuntieL, and originally on GE.  *sniffle*





	

**Author's Note:**

> Original Prompt: Summer sins are the most forgivable; the heat invokes a kind of fleeting madness.

July heat beat down on the ramshackle house before her. There was no hint of rain, no indication of a break in the oppressive heat, but, for once, the heat did not spark the infamous red-headed tempers of the family that lived in this house. 

Fred was gone. Dead. Crushed, destroyed, his spark of life forever extinguished. 

One life in the scheme of things didn't matter, really. Not to the world at large. This wasn't the world at large, though. It was family. His family. 

The only family she had left.

Hermione walked to the door and let herself in, only to be swept up in a hug by Charlie, kissed on the cheek by a pregnant Fleur, and snuggled between Harry and Ron.

“Where's George?”

“Upstairs,” Ron answered her. “He hasn't come down for two days, and Ginny's with him.”

“How bad is it this time?” she asked softly. Even the whispered conversation seemed loud in the unnaturally still house. Molly was in the kitchen with Fleur, yes, but there was no music, none of the usual chatter. Even the knives were chopping quietly – or perhaps Molly was cooking by hand instead of by wand – a way to work out the pain, if it could be worked out.

“He hasn't tried again,” Ron murmured, shaking his head, his voice growing thick.

“But we aren't sure he's stable enough to go back to the shop,” Harry finished for him, leaning his head on Hermione's shoulder. “Verity and Lee are taking care of the shop for now, and Ron.”

“I take afternoons. Ginny stays with George. For some reason, she works best with him when he's like this.”

Hermione said nothing. She knew what Ginny was doing with George, and, while it was far beyond what any siblings should be doing together, she understood why it was happening. The lost twin and the lost girl were too broken to let anyone else try to fix them. That didn't mean she approved, but it didn't mean she was going to say anything, either. It also didn't mean that she didn't want to watch them together – so wrong, so beautiful.

Charlie had disappeared shortly after she had come in, out to the woods behind the house, most likely. He couldn't stand to be cooped up when emotions ran high or heavy. He was a creature of the outdoors.

“What about Arthur and Percy?” Hermione asked, no longer calling someone she'd fought beside by an honorific. 

“Percy's eating lunch in the kitchen before going back to work, and Arthur's out in his shed.”

Who said it didn't matter. Arthur was drowning his sorrows in Muggle mysteries, and he would only come in when Molly called them all together at supper. 

Ron stood. “I have to go,” he said softly, leaning down to kiss the girl he loved. “Stay with us tonight?”

“Of course,” she replied, “at Harry's.” Ron let himself out the door and walked to the Apparation point outside of the wards.

A warm hand cupped her breast and she sighed as Harry teased her nipple.

“You know what he needs tonight,” Harry murmured, lips ghosting over her ear.

“I know, and I have the healing potions.” She sighed softly as his other hand came up under her shirt and began teasing her other nipple, cupping and massaging her breasts until she was aching with anticipation. “You have the inks and jewelry?”

“I've had them since last week when we discussed this.” Their voices didn't carry, but even if they had, no one was listening. “We belong to one another, Hermione. I realized that when Ginny kissed me after it was over. You are the only woman in my life, in his. You'll marry Ron, but you'll have our children. You'll wear a simple gold band on your finger, but our real promises will be under our clothes. We'll all live at Grimmauld, and we'll shag whoever we want, whenever we want –“

“Because the only ones that can touch any of us are the other two.” She hesitated. “I don't want healing potions. I want to feel the pain. All of it.”

“So do I, but Ron insists. He hasn't said why, though.”

“I think he's afraid of the pain bringing back the memories of the tent.” Hermione and Harry had long ago forgiven Ron for running. He had come back, and that had taken more courage than standing firm. “Funny, though, how much he likes to watch us together now.”

Harry chuckled softly, pinched her nipples hard and held them for a long minute. “Funny how much you like it when one of us is watching you fuck the other. Funny how much you love the pain we give you.”

“I love the pain you give each other, too,” she protested, sighing as he released her nipples and the agony of want spilled through her body.

“Good.” Harry kissed her neck. “I had an early morning call, so I'm going to rest for a bit. Don't want to disappoint you tonight.” As he stood to move away, she grabbed his hand and pulled him down to whisper.

“Don't bother George and Ginny.” 

Green eyes bore into hers, and he understood suddenly what she knew about them. He leaned down to her, whispered in her ear, “The only way what I have with you could be better is if you were my sister.”

Hermione shuddered in shame and want. “I know,” she murmured.

Harry gave her a slightly cruel smile, and she felt herself tense. Oh, tonight she would have exquisite pain from her lovers. Then they would mark one another as their own. They would speak their vows in a triadic Unbreakable Vow, and they would begin their lives together, as they were meant to do.

They were all too broken, too interdependent, to look outside of themselves.

Maybe they would give her Cruciatic orgasms this time: the forced pleasure of pain being carefully channeled through her clitoris for what felt like hours at a time. Harry said the longest she had lasted was with Ron holding her under for two minutes as wave after wave of agony-ecstasy tore through her. She loved the sensation. Bellatrix's torture of her had permanently warped her pleasure-pain centers. Harry's connexion to Voldemort had permanently warped his sexual needs. Ron's prolonged exposure to the magic of the Horcruxes had permanently warped his sense of self. She'd beg them for a Cruciatic orgasm tonight before they pierced her, after she had pierced them. Before they applied their tattoos. 

For now, though, she needed to escape the house and try to lay the beast that was her need to rest.

She stood and walked outside, silently slipping out of the house and into the yard. She walked close under the windows, avoiding any eyes that happened to be looking out. She slipped under the kitchen window, the window under George's, and listened to the soft gasps and cries as Ginny and George indulged in their own forms of emotional healing. Ginny never would, not if the diary were still riding her, but George may be able to function again, eventually. 

Hermione tried to scold herself for listening in to their illicit pleasure, but she couldn't manage it. It was impossible to scold oneself for simply listening in when one would prefer to be watching. Instead, she leaned down and slipped off her knickers, knowing that going without was a temptation that was too hard to ignore. The soft gasps and noises continued, and Hermione gave in. She slipped on hand under her skirt and leaned back under the window, closing her eyes as she began to tease herself to orgasm. She hated the way her fingernails caught her sensitive skin, but she needed relief. Relief from the want, from the pain, from everything. Self-inflicted orgasms never helped for long, leaving her primed for her lovers later on, but she had to get it out of her so she could go pretend to Molly and the rest of the Weasleys that everything was fine, that she was fine, when it very clearly wasn't.

She felt rather than saw the man in front of her. Heard his rapid inhalation. Moved her hands from under her dress and instead removed it entirely.

Rough hands cupped her breasts, a hard, clothed body pushed her into the rough wood of the house, a voice growled in her ear, “Dangerous games, little witch.”

“No,” she said, finally opening her eyes to look into the scarred face of Bill Weasley. “Healing.” She put her hands up by her head, spread her legs wider.

Bill growled again, softly. “Anyone could walk by.”

“I know.”

“Anyone could hear you.”

“I'll be quiet.”

A hand rested on her throat, a threat. A promise. Hermione simply looked into his hazel eyes – they had been blue, before Greyback's legacy – and knew he would do whatever he wanted to her.

His hand worked his belt, his buttons. His other hand cast a sticking spell on her hands, then lifted her up to meet him.

It took everything she had not to cry out in relief as he filled her. Not to moan her encouragement as he took her hard and fast, burying his pain by fucking hers out of her. Over and over, he shoved in: over and over, she let him. Her breath drew quick when he tickled her clit with his wand hand. She looked at him, eyes wide as she saw the tracks of his tears on his cheeks. 

His pain was so beautiful.

She came hard, her mouth open to scream – his lips covered hers, muffling her screams and his sobs. He bucked harder and harder into her then, shuddered, stilled. His nose nuzzled into her neck, and she felt his body shaking. She was still bound to the wall of the house, his cock softening inside her and letting his come drip out. 

“My brother is gone,” he whispered, agony in every word.

Hermione came for him again, his pain giving her as much pleasure as his rough handling.

She heard him take in another breath, growl in her ear. His hand returned to her neck.

“Did you just come again, bitch?” he demanded. From pain to rage, and Hermione was pinned.

“Yes,” she said, unrepentant.

“Why. Did. You. Come?”

“Because you are so beautiful when you hurt,” she whispered reverently. “So beautiful. You always have been.”

His hand tightened. Hermione knew her sickness was showing in her eyes, but he didn't squeeze the life from her, didn't send her to find his brother in the afterlife. Instead, he drew his hand down her body and smiled softly at her. 

“I had forgotten,” he whispered. “You were cursed by Bellatrix.”

“Tortured,” she corrected.

“Cursed.” He corrected her this time. “ _Cruciatus_ is Unforgiveable because it warps its victims. It is an Unbreakable curse.” He kissed her softly. “Lucky for you, I know how to make it liveable.”

“So do I,” Hermione whispered. “Harry and Ron hurt me when they fuck me.”

Light gleamed in his eyes, and Hermione saw his madness, wolf-borne, welling up inside him. “Tonight, they will give you agony,” he promised. She felt him growing hard inside her again, the madness within him stirring the lycanthopy to meet and mate with her own insanity.

“Please,” she whispered to him.

“Don't make a sound. It wouldn't do for mother to hear you,” he warned.

“Or Fleur.”

“She would be happy,” he replied, knowing that his marriage was over, even if there was no such thing as divorce. “That's not my child she carries.”

“Whose?”

“Charlie's.”

“Why?”

“I hurt her. Charlie is gentler. He is good with creatures.”

“He hurts you, too.” Everything was clear now that he was hard inside her again. 

“Yes, but they don't let me fuck her anymore.” He leaned in and spoke directly into her ear. “She bleeds too easily.”

“I don't.”

“Good.” He started thrusting then, a brutal, unpredictable rhythm that made her eyes roll back at the pleasure of pain.

“Will they let me fuck you again?” Bill asked, “Or do I have to kill them?”

“They'll let you fuck me,” she managed between pants and winces. “You don't get to own me, though. They own me. I own them.”

“Pity.” And he kept going until she was crying. Until the pain filled her and spilled out of her. Until she forgot the piles of dead, the stink of battle, the exquisite feel of Bellatrix's magic tearing at her nerves, the knife that had carved so hatefully into her flesh.

She did not come again.

She did not want to.

She was mourning.

Bill did not cry again.

She did not want him to.

He was mourning.

Molly's voice floated out into the yard. Supper was ready.

Hermione felt her arms come free, felt her legs – numb from the time he had spent with them wrapped around his waist – try to buckle under her, felt his hands steady her. She was naked, her back was tender from the rough wood, and her inner thighs were bruised from Bill's attention.

She took her dress from his hand, slipped it over her head. 

“I'll talk to them tonight,” she managed, voice rough from suppressed screams. “If they agree, then you can fuck me in front of them and we'll decide if you can be my lover.”

“I don't love you.”

“I don't want you to.”

They walked slowly back to the porch, making sure to stay under the windows and fix their clothing, their hair. 

Hermione was knickerless.

“Hermione,” Bill said as she reached for the doorknob. When she turned to look at him, he kissed her lips lightly. “Thank you.”

She smiled at him. “Thank you, too, Bill.”

Together, they walked inside. Hermione knew Harry would get the whole story out of her before they left for the night. Ron would take her gently now, his admiration for his oldest brother would make him want to ensure she was happy and healthy after the callous use of her body. When she assured him she could take it, he would then fuck her as hard as Bill had – harder, probably. She would scream for him. Harry would laugh and shove into her arse after making Ron pause. Then she would be beyond screaming.

She loved her boys. She wanted Bill. They loved her. He wanted her.

No, tempers were not boiling in the summer heat. 

Summer sins burned the hottest; almost as hot as the madness within.


End file.
